POOR JACK

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS

6 BOOK COLLECTIONS
 POOR JACK
A PLAY IN ONE ACT
“What, old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life! Poor Jack, farewell!
I could have better spared a better man.”
To R. D. L.:
“There are some ghosts,” said poor Jack, “that will not easily
bear raising....”
Thus am I confounded by words of my own choosing, for in
truth I have raised one; and not for me, as for Dame Sylvia,
does Chivalry blow upon a silver horn to drown the squeakings
of that folly. Which is merely another way of saying that those
younglings we two know and love, and who fretted me into the
writing of a play for their theatricals, have rejected the
outcome after a tentative rehearsal, with certain remarks for
my pondering.
Well might that fat whoresome man have been left to the
undignified fate his creator had appointed for him!—or at least
in the staider trappings wherewith I did gird his behemothian
bulk in my story, The Love Letters of Falstaff. Decked for the
stage and with bella donna in its eyes, my sketch, they tell me,
is a ghastly remains to which the footlights would add but the
effect of funeral candles. In fine, that which lacks both plot and
action, and offers, in lieu of lusty characters, four gray ghosts, is
not a play but an edifying exposé of the pitfalls and snares into
which a romancist might be expected to stumble when he dons
the habit of a playwright. These and many other plaints which I
shall strive to live down in the years before me, conveyed a
discomforting unanimity of opinion on the part of my hopeful
players.
With such humility as becomes one of our soberer estate in the
presence of these, our juniors and betters, I pointed out that it
was not my fault, assuredly, that Falstaff was no longer the
merry taker of purses whose roaring oaths had filled all
Gadshill. Nor that Will had never displayed any very hearty
admiration for humanity nor found many more commendable
traits in general exercise among its individuals than did the
authors of the Bible: a spirit which, however distasteful to my
palate, I was obliged in this instance to emulate! Yet I dared
think (and my defense grew noticeably weaker under their
incredulous stare) that old, gross and decayed as he had grown,
the demiurge still clings to the old reprobate; yea, and the aura
of divinity to Helen, whose beauty is drifting dust, so that
Falstaff sees before him not Sylvia Vernon but Sylvia Darke.
Poor Falstaff. “Were’t not for laughing I should pity him!”
But they had since ceased to listen. Vanished were they like the
merry company whose mere names, thought Falstaff, were like
a breath of country air. My script lay before me, eloquent in
naught but their disillusion. Alone, I thought the fire winked
knowingly at me, much like the one I had fanned from the
embers of the past, as if it said: How old must a man
become ’ere he shall be wise enough to content these sure
young critics, so awfully and so inevitably right?
I should have dropped the record of my folly into the flames
and so played out the last scene in my puppet’s stead, had I not
remembered in time my promise to you. Well!—you had
expected to receive it worn from the caresses of eager thumbs,
scented perhaps with the bouquet of reverent applause. It
comes to you fresh and unmarred by any defacing ardor; only
its theme is sere, only its author’s vanity thumb-marked!
And remember: ’tis not a play you give to the world but rather
a spirit croaking to itself in a house where nobody has lived for
a long time.
J. B. C.
 POOR JACK
(The curtain rises to show the Angel room of the Boar’s Head
Tavern in Eastcheap. ’Tis the private parlor of the mistress of the
inn, DAME QUICKLY.
At the back is a high fireplace with heavy leaded diamond paned
windows on either side. At the left is the doorway leading to the
tap room, on the right a huge clothes press. When our play opens
DAME QUICKLY is demurely stirring the fire while BARDOLPH is
sorting garments which he takes from the press. We hear a
quivery voice singing: “Then Came Bold Sir Caradoc” ... and SIR
JOHN FALSTAFF fumbles at the door and enters. It is a FALSTAFF
much broken since his loss of the King’s favor and now equally
decayed in wit, health and reputation. His paunch alone remains
prosperous and monstrous and contrasts greatly with the
shrunken remainder of the man. He is particularly shaky this
morning after a night’s hard drinking. Nevertheless he enters
with what cheerfulness he can muster.)
FALSTAFF
(sings) Then came the Bold Sir Caradoc—Ah, Mistress what
news?—and eke Sir Pellinore—Did I rage last night, Bardolph?
Was I a Bedlamite?
BARDOLPH
As mine own bruises can testify. Had each one of them a tongue
they would raise a clamor beside which Babel were an heir
weeping for his rich uncle’s death; their testimony would
qualify you for any mad-house in England. And if their
evidence go against the doctor’s stomach, the watchman at the
corner hath three teeth—or rather, hath them no longer, since
you knocked them out last night, that will willingly aid him to
digest it.
FALSTAFF
(as he stiffly lowers his great body into the great chair that
awaits him beside the fire and stretches his hands to catch the
heat of the flames.) Three say you? I would have my valor in all
men’s mouths, but not in this fashion, for it is too biting a jest.
Three, say you? Well, I am glad it was no worse; I have a tender
conscience and that mad fellow of the North, Hotspur, sits
heavily upon it, so that thus this Percy, being slain by my valor,
is per se avenged, a plague upon him! Three, say you? I would
to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is; I
would I had ’bated my natural inclination somewhat and slain
less tall fellows by three score. I doubt Agamemnon slept not
well o’ nights. Three, say you? Give the fellow a crown apiece
for his mouldy teeth, if thou hast them; if thou hast them not,
bid him eschew this vice of drunkenness whereby his
misfortune hath befallen him, and thus win him heavenly
crowns.
BARDOLPH
Indeed Sir, I doubt....
FALSTAFF
(testily) Doubt not, Sirrah! (He continues more calmly in a
virtuous manner) Was not the apostle reproved for that same
sin? Thou art a Didymus, Bardolph,—an incredulous paynim, a
most unspeculative rogue. Have I carracks trading in the Indies?
Have I robbed the exchequer of late? Have I the Golden Fleece
for a cloak? Nay, it is a paltry gimlet, and that augurs badly.
Why does this knavish watchman take me for a raven to feed
him in the wilderness? Tell him that there are no such ravens
hereabouts; else I had ravenously limed the house-tops and
sets springes in the gutters. Inform him that my purse is no
better lined than his own broken skull; it is void as a beggar’s
protestations, or a butcher’s stall in Lent; light as a famished
gnat, or the sighing of a new-made widower; more empty than
a last year’s bird’s nest, than a madman’s eye, or, in fine, than
the friendship of a king.
MISTRESS QUICKLY
But you have wealthy friends, Sir John. (She nods her head
vigorously) Yes I warrant you Sir John. Sir John, you have a
many wealthy friends; you cannot deny that, Sir John.
FALSTAFF
(He cowers closer to the fire as though he were a little cold) I
have no friends since Hal is King. I had I grant you, a few score
of acquaintances whom I taught to play at dice; paltry young
blades of the City, very unfledged juvenals! Setting my
knighthood and my valor aside, if I did swear friendship with
these, I did swear to a lie. But this is a censorious and muddy-
minded world, so that, look you, even these sprouting
aldermen, these foul, bacon-fed rogues, have fled my friendship
of late, and my reputation hath grown somewhat more murky
than Erebus. No matter! I walk alone as one that hath the
pestilence. No matter! But I grow old, I am not in the vanward
of my youth, Mistress.
(He reaches for the cup of sack that BARDOLPH has poured out
and holds on a tray at his elbow.)
MISTRESS QUICKLY
Indeed, I do not know what your worship will do.
FALSTAFF
(Drinks the sack down and grins in a somewhat ghostly fashion)
Faith! unless the Providence that watches over the fall of a
sparrow hath an eye to the career of Sir John Falstaff, Knight,
and so comes to my aid shortly, I must need convert my last
doublet into a mask and turn highwayman in my shirt. I can
take purses yet, ye Uzzite comforters, as gaily as I did at
Gadshill, where that scurvy Poins, and he that is now King, and
some twoscore other knaves did afterward assault me in the
dark; yet I peppered some of them I warrant you.
BARDOLPH
You must be rid of me then, Master. I for one have no need of a
hempen collar.
FALSTAFF
(stretching himself in the chair) I, too, would be loth to break
the gallow’s back. For fear of halters, we must alter our way of
living; we must live close, Bardolph, till the wars make us
Croesuses or food for crows. And if Hal but hold to his bias,
there will be wars: I will eat a piece of my sword, if he hath not
need of it shortly. Ah, go thy ways, tall Jack; there live not three
good men in England and one of them is fat, and grows old. We
must live close, Bardolph, we must forswear drinking and
wenching! But there is lime in this sack, you rogue, give me
another cup.
(BARDOLPH draws and brings him another cup of sack which he
empties at one long draught.)
FALSTAFF
I pray you hostess, remember that Doll Tearsheet sups with me
tonight; have a capon of the best and be not sparing of your
wine. I will repay you, upon honor, when we young fellows
return from France, all laden with rings and brooches and such
trumperies like your Norfolkshire pedlars at Christmas-tide.
We will sack a town for you, and bring you back the Lord
Mayor’s beard to stuff you a cushion; the Dauphin shall be your
tapster yet: we will walk on lilies, I warrant you to the tune of
“hey then, up go we.”
MISTRESS QUICKLY
Indeed, Sir, your worship is as welcome to my pantry as the
mice—a pox on them—think themselves; you are heartily
welcome. Ah, well, old Puss is dead; I had her of Goodman
Quickly these ten years since;—but I had thought that you
looked for the lady who was here but now;—she was a roaring
lion among the mice.
FALSTAFF
(with great animation) What Lady? Was it Flint the Mercer’s
wife, think you? Ah, she hath a liberal disposition, and will,
without the aid of Prince Houssain’s carpet or the horse of
Cambuscan, transfer the golden shining pieces from her
husband’s coffers to mine.
MISTRESS QUICKLY
(after due consideration) No mercer’s wife, I think. She came
with two patched footmen and smelled of gentility;—Master
Dumbleton’s father was a mercer; but he had red hair;—she is
old;—and I could never abide red hair.
FALSTAFF
No matter! I can love this lady, be she a very Witch of Endor.
Observe what a thing it is to be a proper man, Bardolph! She
hath marked me;—in public, perhaps; on the street, it may
be;—and then, I warrant you, made such eyes! and sighed such
sighs! and lain awake o’ nights, thinking of a pleasing portly
gentleman, whom, were I not modesty’s self, I might name;—
and I, all this while, not knowing! Fetch me my book of riddles
and my sonnets, that I may speak smoothly. Why was my beard
not combed this morning? No matter, it will serve. Have I no
better cloak than this?
MISTRESS QUICKLY
(who has been looking out of the window) Come, but your
worship must begin with unwashed hands, for old Madame
Wishfor’t and her two country louts are even now at the door.
FALSTAFF
Avaunt, minions. Avaunt! Conduct the lady hither, hostess;
Bardolph another cup of sack. We will ruffle it, lad, and go to
France all gold like Midas! Are mine eyes too red? I must look sad,
you know, and sigh very pitifully. Ah, we will ruffle it! Another
cup of sack, Bardolph;—I am a rogue if I have drunk to-day. And
avaunt! vanish! for the lady comes! (He throws himself into what
he feels is a gallant attitude, but that is one that suggests to the
audience a man suddenly palsied trying to imitate a turkey cock
and struts to the door. The lady that enters is on the staider side
of sixty, but the years have touched her with unwonted kindliness
and her form is still unbent, her countenance, although bloodless
and deep furrowed still bears the traces of great beauty and she
is unquestionably a person of breeding. SIR JOHN advances to her
with his peculiar strut; indubitably he feels himself a miracle of
elegance.)
FALSTAFF
See, from the glowing East, Aurora Comes! Madam permit me
to welcome you to my poor apartments; they are not worthy....
LADY SYLVIA
I would see Sir John Falstaff, sir.
FALSTAFF
Indeed, Madam, if those bright eyes—whose glances have
already cut my poor heart into as many pieces as the man in
the front of the almanac—will but desist for a moment from
such butcher’s work and do their proper duty, you will have
little trouble in finding the bluff soldier you seek.
 LADY SYLVIA
Are you Sir John? The son of old Sir Edward Falstaff of Norfolk?
FALSTAFF
His wife hath frequently assured me so, and to confirm her
evidence I have about me a certain villainous thirst that did
plague Sir Edward sorely in his lifetime and came to me with
his other chattels. The property I have expended long since;
but no Jew will advance me a maravedi on the Falstaff thirst. It
is a priceless commodity, not to be bought or sold; you might
as soon quench it.
LADY SYLVIA
I would not have known you, but, I have not seen you these
forty years.
FALSTAFF
Faith, Madam, the great pilferer Time hath taken away a little
from my hair, and somewhat added—saving your presence—
to my belly; and my face hath not been improved by being the
grindstone for some hundred swords. But I do not know you.
LADY SYLVIA
I am Sylvia Vernon. And once years ago I was Sylvia Darke.
FALSTAFF
I remember. (His voice changes, he also loses his strut as he
hands LADY SYLVIA to the great chair.)
 LADY SYLVIA
(after a long pause) A long time ago. Time hath dealt harshly
with us both, John;—the name hath a sweet savor. I am an old
woman now. And you?
FALSTAFF
I would not have known you. (Resentfully) What do you here?
LADY SYLVIA
My son goes to the wars and I am come to bid him farewell; yet
I should not tarry in London for my lord is feeble and hath
constant need of me. But I, an old woman, am yet vain enough
to steal these few moments from him who needs me, to see for
the last time, mayhap, him who once was my very dear friend.
FALSTAFF
I was never your friend, Sylvia.
LADY SYLVIA
(with a wistful smile) Ah the old wrangle. My dear and very
honored lover, then; and I am come to see him here.
FALSTAFF
Ay.... ’Tis a quiet orderly place, where I bestow my patronage;
the woman of the house had a husband once in my company.
God rest his soul! he bore a good pike. He retired in his old age
and ’stablished this tavern where he passed his declining years,
till death called him gently away from this naughty world. God
rest his soul, say I. (aside) God wot, I cannot tell her that the
rogue was knocked over the head with a joint-stool while
rifling the pockets of a drunken roisterer!
LADY SYLVIA
And you for old memories’ sake yet aid his widow? That is like
you, John. (There is a long silence in which the crackling of the
fire can be plainly heard.) And are you sorry that I come again,
in a worse body, John, strange and time ruined?
FALSTAFF
Sorry?... No, faith! but there are some ghosts that will not easily
bear raising and you have raised one.
LADY SYLVIA
We have summoned up no very fearful spectre, I think. At most
no worse than a pallid gentle spirit that speaks—to me at
least—of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very
happy a great while ago.
FALSTAFF
And you come hither to seek that boy? The boy that went mad
and rhymed of you in those far off dusty years? He is quite
dead, my lady, he was drowned, mayhap in a cup of wine; or he
was slain, perchance, by some few light women. I know not
how he died. But he is quite dead, my lady, and I had not been
haunted by his ghost until to-day. (He breaks into a fit of
unromantic coughing)
LADY SYLVIA
He was a dear boy. A boy who loved a young maid very truly; a
boy that found the maid’s father too strong and shrewd for
desperate young lovers—eh, how long ago it seems and what a
flood of tears the poor maid shed at being parted from that
dear boy.
FALSTAFF
Faith! the rogue had his good points.
LADY SYLVIA
Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know and you will believe
me that I am heartily sorry for the pain I brought into your life.
FALSTAFF
My wounds heal easily—
LADY SYLVIA
For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew
it was for the best that I should not accept your love, believe
me John, I always knew the value of it and have held it an
honor that any woman must prize.
FALSTAFF
Dear Lady, the world is not altogether of your opinion.
LADY SYLVIA
I know not of the world, for we live away from it. But we have
heard of you ever and anon; I have your life writ letter perfect
these forty years or more.
 FALSTAFF
You have heard of me?
LADY SYLVIA
As a gallant and brave soldier. Of how you fought at sea with
Mowbray that was afterward Duke of Norfolk; of your
knighthood by King Richard; of how you slew the Percy at
Shrewsbury; and captured Coleville o’ late in Yorkshire; and
how the prince, that is now King, did love you above all other
men; and in fine, of many splendid doings in the great world.
FALSTAFF
I have fought somewhat. But we are not Bevis of Southampton;
we have slain no giants. Have you heard naught else?
LADY SYLVIA
Little else of note. But we are very proud of you at home in
Norfolk. And such tales as I have heard I have woven together
in one story; and I have told it many times to my children as we
sat on the old Chapel steps at evening and the shadows
lengthened across the lawn, and I bid them emulate this, the
most perfect knight and gallant gentleman I have ever known.
And they love you, I think, though but by repute.
(There is another long silence, finally—)
FALSTAFF
Do you still live at Winstead?
LADY SYLVIA
Yes, in the old house. It is little changed, but there are many
changes about.
FALSTAFF
Is Moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?
LADY SYLVIA
Married to Hodge, the tanner, and dead long since.
FALSTAFF
And all our merry company? Marian? and Tom and little Osric?
And Phyllis? and Adelais? Zounds, it is like a breath of country
air to speak their names once more.
LADY SYLVIA
(She speaks in a hushed voice) All dead save Adelais and even to
me poor Adelais seems old and strange. Walter was slain in the
French wars and she hath never married.
FALSTAFF
All dead.... This same death hath a wide maw. It is not long
before you and I, my lady, will be at supper with the worms.
But you at least have had a happy life?
LADY SYLVIA
I have been content enough, but all that seems run by; for, John,
I think that at our age we are not any longer very happy, or
very miserable.
FALSTAFF
Faith! we are both old; and I had not known it, my lady until to-
day.
(Again silence. Finally LADY SYLVIA rises with a start.)
LADY SYLVIA
I would I had not come.
FALSTAFF
Nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have awakened. For,
madam, you whom I loved once—you are in the right. Our
blood runs thinner than of yore; and we may no longer, I think,
either rejoice or sorrow very deeply.
LADY SYLVIA
It is true.... I must go ... and indeed I would to God, that I had not
come. (FALSTAFF bows his head and remains silent. Presently she
goes on) Yet, there is something here which I must keep no
longer; for here are all the letters you ever writ me. (She hands
him a little packet. He turns them awkwardly in his hands once
or twice; stares at them and then at her.)
FALSTAFF
You have kept them—always?
LADY SYLVIA
Yes, but I must not be guilty of continuing such follies. It is a
villainous example to my grandchildren.... Farewell.
(FALSTAFF draws close to her and takes both her hands in his. He
looks her in the eyes and draws himself very erect.)
FALSTAFF
How I loved you!
LADY SYLVIA
I know and I thank you for your gift, my lover, O brave, true
lover, whose love I was not ever ashamed to own! Farewell, my
dear, yet a little while, and I go to seek the boy and girl we
know of.
FALSTAFF
I shall not be long, madam. Speak a kind word for me in Heaven;
for I have sore need of it.
LADY SYLVIA
(By this time she has reached the door) You are not sorry that I
came?
FALSTAFF
There are many wrinkles now in your dear face, my lady, the
great eyes are a little dimmed, and the sweet laughter is a little
cracked; but I am not sorry to have seen you thus. For I have
loved no woman truly save you alone; and I am not sorry.
Farewell. (He bends over and reverently kisses her fingers. Then
she leaves as quietly as a cloud passes.)
FALSTAFF
(he goes back to the chair by the fire and sits at ease) Lord, Lord,
how subject we old men are to the vice of lying.... Yet it was not
all a lie;—but what a coil over a youthful greensickness ’twixt a
lad and a wench more than forty years syne.... I might have had
money of her for the asking, yet I am glad I did not; which is a
parlous sign and smacks of dotage.... Were it not a quaint
conceit, a merry tickle-brain of Fate that this mountain of
malmsey were once a delicate stripling with apple cheeks and a
clean breath, smelling of civit and as mad for love, I warrant
you as any Amadis of them all? For, if a man were to speak
truly, I did love her. I had special marks of the pestilence. Not
all the flagons and apples in the universe might have comforted
me; I was wont to sigh like a leaky bellows; to weep like a
wench that is lost of her granddam; to lard my speech with the
fagends of ballads like a man milliner; and did indeed indite
sonnets, cazonets and what not of mine own elaboration.... And
Moll did carry them, plump, brown-eyed Moll that hath
married Hodge, the tanner and reared her tannikins and died
long since.
Lord, Lord, what did I not write (He draws a paper from the
packet and leaning over deciphers the faded writing by the fire
light.)
Have pity, Sylvia! Cringing at thy door
Entreats with dolorous cry and clamoring
That mendicant who quits thee nevermore;
Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing
In any woods, yet as in wanton Spring
He follows thee; and never will have done
Though nakedly he die, from following
 Whither thou leadest. Canst thou look upon
His woes and laugh to see a goddess’ son
Of wide dominion, and in strategy
More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon,
Inept to combat thy severity?
Have pity Sylvia! And let Love be one
Among the folk that bear thee company.
Is it not the very puling speech of your true lover? Faith, Adam
Cupid, hath forsworn my fellowship long since; he hath no
score chalked up against him at the Boar’s Head Tavern; or if
he have, I doubt not the next street beggar might discharge it.
And she hath commended me to her children as a very gallant
gentleman and a true knight. Jove that sees all hath a goodly
commodity of mirth; I doubt not his sides ache at times, as if
they had conceived another wine-god. “Among the folk that
bear thee company” Well well, it was a goodly rogue that wrote
it, though the verse runs but lamely! A goodly rogue.
(BARDOLPH steals back into the room.)
BARDOLPH
Well, Sir John?
FALSTAFF
(He addresses BARDOLPH. As the speech goes on BARDOLPH’S jaw
drops lower and lower as he gapes his astonishment) Look you,
he might have lived cleanly and forsworn sack, he might have
been a gallant gentleman and begotten grandchildren and had
a quiet nook at the ingleside to rest his old bones; but he is
dead long since. He might have writ himself armigero in many
a bill or obligation or quittance or what not; he might have left
something behind him save unpaid tavern bills; he might have
heard cases, harried poachers and quoted old saws; and slept
in his own family chapel through sermons yet unwrit, beneath
his presentment, done in stone, and a comforting bit of Latin
but he is dead long since.
(MISTRESS QUICKLY TOO STEALS IN.)
MISTRESS QUICKLY
Well, Sir John?
FALSTAFF
(Continues his meditation, unaware of them) Zooks, I prate like
a death’s head. A thing done hath an end, God have mercy on us
all! And I will read no more of the rubbish. (He casts the papers
into the heart of the fire; they blaze up and he watches them
burn to the last spark. Then he gives himself a mighty shake) A
cup of sack to purge the brain! And I will go sup with Doll
Tearsheet.
(The curtain falls quickly, it also is happy the play hath ended.)
 This book was distributed courtesy of:

For your own Unlimited Reading and FREE eBooks today, visit:
http://www.Free-eBooks.net

Share this eBook with anyone and everyone automatically by selecting any of the
options below:

To show your appreciation to the author and help others have

wonderful reading experiences and find helpful information too,
we'd be very grateful if you'd kindly
post your comments for this book here.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Free-eBooks.net respects the intellectual property of others. When a book's copyright owner submits their work to Free-eBooks.net, they are granting us permission to distribute such material. Unless
otherwise stated in this book, this permission is not passed onto others. As such, redistributing this book without the copyright owner's permission can constitute copyright infringement. If you
believe that your work has been used in a manner that constitutes copyright infringement, please follow our Notice and Procedure for Making Claims of Copyright Infringement as seen in our Terms
of Service here:

https://www.free-ebooks.net/tos.html
3 AUDIOBOOK COLLECTIONS

6 BOOK COLLECTIONS